Clive copped it on a Thursday.
He’d been gunnin’ for Wednesday. Bins go out Wednesdays, innit? Didn’t wanna get outlived by his bleedin’ wheelie. But his ticker had other plans. Him and gravity proper teamed up midway through fixin’ some pipe he had no business messin’ with. Sorted.
Maureen clocked him under the downstairs khazi. Spanner still in his mitt. Mug lookin’ like a smacked arse.
— Oh, for fuck’s sake, Clive.
She clocked him a tick.
— Told ya that pipe weren’t givin’ ya the eye.
She rang the ambulance. Then Sheila from bingo. Ambulance was bang on.
Sheila? Nah.
Sheila pitched up first.
Prodded his sock.
— He—
— Either that or he’s gone full yoga, says Maureen.
Paramedics rolled in. Muttered shit. “Bit of rigor.” “DIY bellend.” They bagged him and shipped him off.
Maureen kept the spanner.
Three days on, Clive wakes up in a drawer.
Chiller drawer.
Morgue, yeah?
Buck naked. Freezin’ his nuts off. Deffo not turned to ash.
— If this is heaven, he goes, — the air con’s proper shite.
Junior tech faints clean away. Senior one yells BOLLOCKS, dead loud, then bangs it out again for luck. Coroner sticks the kettle on.
— Ain’t doin’ no zombie form-fillin’ without Rich Teas, he says. — Not after last time.
— Last time? says Clive.
— Don’t.
They chuck him a blanket. Tea, scaldin’. Laminated leaflet.
SO YOU’VE BEEN DECLARED LEGALLY DEAD: YOUR GUIDE, MATE
Clive scans it.
— Says I gotta reapply for me NI number.
— Only if you’re back graftin’, says the coroner.
Clive gives him the eye.
— Just clawed meself outta the grave. Ain’t lost the plot.
He legs it home.
Maureen yanks the door. Mop in hand. Looks at him like he tracked mud in — her standard gawp, basically.
— You’re dead, she says.
— Got better.
— Drippin’ on the mat.
— Maureen—
— On the fuckin’ mat, Clive.
He steps back. Dries his plates. She lets him in.
Eventually.
She’d flogged his fishin’ gear. Binned his dentist. Sold his recliner — his recliner, the one what reclined spot-on, four years breakin’ it in — to Barry next door.
Callin’ him “Baz” now.
— That was me chair, Maureen.
— Weren’t usin’ it.
— I was dead.
— Spot on.
— You can’t just—
— Can.
— But—
— Did.
Church won’t tweak his headstone. Wants proof of proper comin’-back-to-life. Proper. Like he gotta keep it up a bit.
Bank’s froze his dosh. Waitin’ on “metaphysical bollocks.” No one knows what it means.
No one.
Tesco’s barred him.
Some drama. Self-scan. Three packs custard creams. And a bishop.
Bishop jumps. Not Clive’s fault.
— It scanned me, he says.
— You leant on it, says the gaffer.
— Then tells me to shove meself in the baggin’ area.
— Sir—
— Shove meself.
— Gotta ask ya to piss off.
— Just come back from dead.
— Not a Tesco problem, mate.
Fair dos.
He crashes in the shed.
Not a shed.
The shed.
Fortress o’ Lawn, innit.
Rigs a kettle. Digs out the trannie. Deckchair — the stained one, no explanations ever.
He’s alive. He’s bendin’ the rules. He’s in the shed.
Through the fence gaps, Barry — Baz — loungin’ in his chair.
Loungin’.
Clive sups his tea.
Judges ‘em quiet-like. Spanner-manglers. “Baz” enthusiasts. Selleth of a geezer’s recliner while he’s temporarily snuffed it.
— If I cop it again, he says.
No one’s listenin’.
Eyes the wheelie.
— Wednesday it is.